Sixth Degree Burns
by Zazeems
Summary: Marcus Burns feels hollow and insecure having retired from the regiment. He relives his career in order to come to terms with what he did, and what he's become. Tell me what you think!
1. Chapter 1

It was morning, and Marcus lay crumpled on the sofa, his head lolling as he drifted in and out of a restless doze.

He reached forwards blindly, the sunlight from the curtains cutting a vicious swathe through the dusty haze, before his hand clasped around a small velvet box. He flipped it open, and gazed down at the flimsy strip of maroon material and cast metal that constituted the only lasting thanks he'd received for his actions. Letting the Victoria Cross fall into the crumb laden carpet, Marcus Burns reflected upon the events that had led to him to receive it.

The events of October three years ago were still heavily discussed in the media. The most unfortunate consequence of the attacks had been that, in a nation whose governmental system was dominated by red tape and bureaucracy, it would most probably be years more before the inquests, commissions and committees finished scrutinising the attacks, and even longer before fatuous and contrived 'reforms' that would undoubtedly be recommended were implemented. It was particularly ironic because in comparison to the rest of the war, the events in London had been relatively insignificant. But the public outcry and fear had been of a type not seen since the blitz of the early forties. Naturally, the two black-clad Special Forces men who had been photographed emerging from the tube in Westminster had become an object of feverish speculation, to the point that Whitehall had seen it fit to divulge their names.

Alistair Wallcroft and Marcus Burns had become national heroes. Television interviews, magazine, book and film deals bombarded them, and dignitaries couldn't get enough of them. Wallcroft had loved it, telling the story of the events on the tube to anybody who would listen, and always in the same hushed, reverential tones. Marcus hated it, and rejected every offer.

Unfortunately there were those that could not be refused. The visit to Downing Street had been the worst.

The televised ceremony involved the Prime Minister expressing his official gratitude, and the Queen issuing their decorations. After hearing this sycophantic itinerary, Marcus had been predisposed to cynicism; what was wrong with the Prime Minister's unofficial gratitude, or was he such an obsequious man as to not possess any? And as for the Queen: a woman of her age stand around in mid-December handing out medals? She ought to be in the Palace knitting or whatever bollocks it was that old women got up to.

Her Majesty had been nice enough. Her thanks had seemed improvised and genuine, and her issuing of the VC whilst ceremonious and protracted, was almost tolerable. The Prime Minister on the other hand was different. His gregariousness was as pervasive as it was false, and his handshake swift and austere. The air of self-satisfaction that he had exuded disgusted Marcus, and he had felt inclined to cut the man short.

"Myself and indeed the entire British nation wis-"

"I didn't vote for you, and I did what I did because it was my job."

Marcus had retraced his steps and returned to the chauffeured Jaguar that had brought him there, a flicker of amusement playing across his face as he saw the stunned expressions of half a dozen government officials dancing in the paparazzo's camera flashes.

The media offers had diminished since then, and a generous early retirement package meant that Marcus had spent the intervening time as if it were a lazy school holiday, doing practically nothing except exist in his flat. Doing his best to convince himself he was some sort of dilettante, rather than confront the truth that he was a man in his mid-thirties, with no girlfriend, job or family ties, and only a handful of friends whom he seldom spoke to.

At 9:52AM, the phone rang.


	2. Chapter 2

Marcus rolled over; the cacophony of the phone would soon cease.

After 17 rings, it did.

5 minutes later, it started again. Marcus heaved himself from the sofa and wearily stumbled to the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Burnsy! Having spoken to you forever and I've got a day off! Fancy a drink?"

The man on the phone was called Tony. He was an idiot.

"It's ten in the morning Tony..."

"My God it is!" cried Tony in mock surprise, "...so about that drink?"

The good thing about living in east London, Marcus was forced to concede as he strode through the unseasonably warm air, was that there was no lack of choice when it came to pubs. Tony had enthusiastically suggested '_The Black Boy'_ on account of its excellent variety of real ale. The place itself was a poky bastion of quintessential working class culture, the controversial name in actuality referring to the areas chimney sweep heritage.

Tony sat at a table near the back of the pub, instantly recognisable by the insatiable smile that belonged to a man ten years younger. Marcus crossed to the table and sat down.

"So what're you having?" Tony frothed.

"I don't really feel like drinking, not this early anyway."

"Do you know what you need then?" Tony continued, unabated.

"What?"

"A Fuller's!" cried Tony, standing up and covering the 15 feet to the bar in what seemed like one fluid movement.

"Alright. But I'm paying."

Satisfied, Tony made his way back with the drinks.

"Why are we in the pub at 10 in the morning? What do you wanna see me about?" Marcus had never been one to mince his words, least of all in his current mood.

"I was hoping to talk to you about the paradigm shift concerning quantum mechanics"; Tony was one of those people who failed to understand that subtlety was required for effective sarcasm. "Why the hell do you think I want to talk to you? Nobody has seen you for weeks!"

"I don't feel like going out. I just want to sit around and relax. I need a bit of me time."

"You've been saying that for nearly two years."

"Well it must be true then."

Tony gritted his teeth. "We're worried about you. You've been going out less and less lately, and what with you not needing to go to work we just feel like you're stagnating."

Marcus was looking into his glass as though trying to work out whether it was deep enough to drown himself in.

"And we've tried, God knows we have. But it just feels like you don't care anymore. You've been completely disinterested in everything we've done for you. Remember when I got you that lunch date with the brunette who had the really nice-"

"I wasn't ready for that". Marcus cut across him. "I was still adjusting to life outside of the regiment".

Tony pursed his lips and sighed, the pair supping their beer without any real purpose but to dull the effect of the hiatus in conversation. Tony's gaze wandered, before returning to that of his friend.

"You're not happy are you?" he said bluntly.

"I... I'm just... At the moment I..."

Tony looked at him.

"No."

"You do know everything I've been telling you to do would help no end. You've just gotta get out and be a bit pro-active. You're a funny guy Marcus. People like you."

Marcus roused slightly. "So what do you suggest?"

Three rounds on the quiz machine and a QPR game later he was in better spirits than he had been in months, the lively football induced atmosphere permeating through him, helped in no small part by 4 pints of 4.1% London Pride. All of a sudden the pub seemed friendlier. The other patrons fellow football fans rather than scrutineers, the dingy lighting inviting rather than intimidating. Tony was staggering slightly; his rhetoric "You're a long time dead" justifying his consumption of 7 pints on a Sunday. He ambled over and brandished some peanuts at Marcus, then pulled him into a tight hug before he had a chance to take one. "Listen I'm so sorry but I've got to go, it's been so great to see you. We're definitely doing this again" he slurred.

Marcus let go and smiled "You too Tony, you too."

The walk back home was pleasant; in a thoroughly traditional community very few people were to be seen out and about on a Sunday, and Marcus enjoyed a half mile of inner relief and peace interrupted only by the occasional dog-walker. As he crossed the threshold, his phone buzzed:

"just got home... alices just as thrilled as I am that youre getting out and about. Text us and keep us updated on whats going on. Me and the boys are out on Wednesday night if you fancy?"

Marcus text back. "might be good yeah. And as for keeping updated, Ill do that, therell be no need to ring me twice like this morning."

He slumped into the sofa and rested the phone on his chest, feeling more at peace than he had done for as long as he could remember. Maybe this was his watershed moment. Maybe this was where he could finally leave his days in the regiment behind and work towards doing something new with his life. He smiled and eagerly retrieved his buzzing phone.

"What? I didn't ring you twice"

Marcus sprang up and fumbled through some pizza boxes to find his house phone. It had a message. "Hi I'm Heidi Wade from the Guardian. I was wondering if you would be interested in talking to me about your time in the Special Forces?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I know up until now my chapters have felt rather short. I promise the next one shall not be. Review please, it'd be nice to know if people actually like what it is I'm writing (or not). Hope you like it!**

Marcus placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at it for several minutes. As time passed a dim voice in his brain told him that he should probably take some course of action. He did, and went out to buy his first pack of cigarettes in 5 years. Returning home, he lit one from the gas stove. "Just like riding a bike" he mused to himself, the warmth of the smoke permeating his lungs. He took another drag. No, he hadn't forgotten how to do it, nor had the almost instantaneous and incomparable calming effect that only nicotine could have on him diminished. He returned to the living room and sat down, sliding lower and lower into the upholstery of the sofa as he relaxed. Maybe he should talk to this woman, he thought, snatching up a nearby orange peel and forming it into a makeshift ashtray. Maybe it'd be fine, and besides, hadn't Tony said to do things more often? He made the decision, and reached for the phone again.

"**Call me on 0775..."**

Marcus jotted down the number the journalist had said and stubbed out his cigarette. He stared at his scrawled handwriting and wondered. What exactly would this woman want him to talk about? How persistent would she be? Where would she want to meet, and how often? The niggling doubts persisted and try as he might, Marcus couldn't bring himself to call. Several times he picked up the phone, only to hesitate, the line bleeping unnaturally loudly as if goading him for his cowardice. He gave up and replaced it, picking up his mobile again. It had a text.

"**Aaaaaand remember. Youre a long time dead."**

Tony's words seemed to be fated encouragement. Marcus closed the text and dialled ferociously.

"**Hi, it's Heidi. I'm obviously busy at the moment, so please leave a message!"**

"**...Hi... it's Marcus... Marcus Burns that is... umm... yeah about talking to you. Umm... yeah sure."**

He hung up and grimaced. He'd sounded like an awkward teenager asking someone out on a date, not a grown man agreeing to be interviewed for a national newspaper. Also, why had she given him her personal mobile number, weren't journalists supposed to have a work phone, and loads of different e-mail addresses and assistants and things? He opened his laptop and googled her name. Her online journalistic profile described her as a "General comment and current events contributor".

Right, so she was a 'contributor', rather than say, a 'correspondent'. Great, a freelance ambitious story-chaser who was struggling so badly she'd interview a man who went out of the news three years ago. He skimmed through her other details. "Born 28th March 1992". Yup. Too old to still be promising, too young to have been completely shunted from the job market. He silently laughed. He always enjoyed exercising his cynicism. Besides, at least there was a work email address. Hell, he might be able to avoid the hideously awkward telephone demeanour he'd just reminded himself he possessed. He drafted a more coherent and formal acceptance of her offer and sent it.

Sitting back, he smiled to himself. The journey towards wherever he was going had started. Now all he had to do was wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yup, I've actually written some more. I've had a lot on, so I'm sorry it took me so long. The parts in italics are Marcus's thoughts... not sure if I make it clear in the text, but I like the effect it created so I left it in. Also 'Pan' means 'Mr' in Polish. I appreciate that that could have been confusing.**

The waiting was over. A week's worth of procrastination and anxiety had finally resulted in an interview, although due to it taking place in a cafe that could only be described as 'cosy', it felt a lot more intimate than that. The week's delay had been his doing; she'd emailed to say that she was free 'as soon as possible', but he'd told her she'd have to wait 'until he had a gap in his schedule'. This was partly to give himself time to prepare mentally, but for the most part to give the impression that he led a busy life. Whilst dressing, he reflected upon just how childish this was.

The meeting was a breakfast appointment, a concept completely alien to Marcus; although after a career spent solely in the military this was hardly surprising. However it seemed fundamentally wrong that someone could ask to meet you over breakfast. He usually spent his morning meal slowly becoming human in the company of the XFM breakfast show and a bowl of weetabix, and to interrupt this felt somehow perverse. He surmised it to be an American concept, reasoning they were the only people gregarious enough to feel the need to be this obtrusive, and after frequent dealings with them throughout many operations and postings, he knew the aforementioned stereotype to be ostensibly true. _Lay off the yanks Marcus. What if she's one? That'd be a fine mindset to be in._

Picking clothing was a challenge, not least because the weather was, as usual, behaving in a consistently inconsistent manner. In the end, he chose trainers, the smartest jeans he owned (although this was only by virtue of their being black) and a blue shirt so neutral and austere one could have easily mistaken it for being Swiss.

_Wow, two national stereotypes in 5 minutes. I thought we had to be respectable today?_ Mornings always brought out a vague xenophobia in him, although he mused that this was probably one of the qualities that'd made him a good soldier.

He left earlier than he needed to. The cafe was a couple of miles away, but it seemed to him walking there through crisp fresh air was a much better way to start the day than to cram into a hot acrid tube carriage and pretend to read a free newspaper to avoid making eye contact with anybody. That was what he hated most about the tube, the absurdity of dozens of grown men and women sitting together, but steadfastly refusing to communicate with one another, even through so much as a smile. He then came to the realisation that this seemed rich coming from a man who'd barely spoken to anyone for the past few years, and compounded his own misery by breathing in air that was brimming with petrol and the sickening odour of the yeast fermentation at a presumably upwind brewery. He was undeterred however. Fetid it may be, but the unnecessarily winding streets hemmed in by red brick flecked with concrete and glass felt comforting, a reminder of the city that he loved, but so rarely explored any more.

He arrived almost exactly on time at a cafe he knew to make good breakfast, hence his suggestion of it as a meeting place. Called 'Mother Brown's' by its Polish owner in an abysmal attempt to achieve a home-grown cockney feel about it, the place usually only did business of any note at lunchtime, and had subsequently become a haunt of Marcus's when he wanted to get out of the house on a morning. As he walked in a bell tinkled, and a grin appeared behind the counter, followed by Mr Szczęsny, the owner.

"Ahhhh, Pan Burns! What can I be getting you this morning?"

"Just a coffee please Mariusz. Oh, and do you mind if I smoke in here?"

By way of a reply Mariusz placed an ashtray on the table and winked, before busying himself behind the counter, making as he always did a seemingly inordinate amount of noise to prepare a relatively simple beverage. Marcus lapsed as he always did into a catatonic state, cigarette in one hand, staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting. The place was empty except for him, and he once again felt the beautiful sense of isolated involvement that only sitting alone looking out onto a busy street could provide, and that he sat at the front of the cafe often to achieve. The bell on the door tinkled once more and he looked round.

A woman walked in. Marcus hadn't been sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't her. Tall and slim, dirty blonde hair waved and curled its way down to her elbows, framing a face that had skin so pale it practically glowed, but in places was so freckled she almost looked tanned. Grey eyes sat above a nose that was exactly the right size for her face, and had a bend at just the right place and angle. A green dress split by a thin belt was businesslike enough, but shorter than any he'd ever seen a professional woman wearing. Then again, with legs like the pair striding towards him, it would seem a terrible waste to wear anything longer. She stretched out a hand and snapped Marcus out of his stunned reverie.

"Hi, I'm Heidi. It's nice to finally meet you."

She took his hand, her slender fingers still managed to execute a pretty forceful handshake.

"Marcus. It's a pleasure."

She sat down, and then started at the sight of the ashtray and Marcus' hastily abandoned cigarette smoking in it. "Sorry, if you mind I'll put it out" he blustered.

"Are you joking me? I've always thought somebody must realise what a piss-take the ban is" and illustrated her point by producing a packet of Silk-Cut and lighting one.

_Christ, this girl just gets better and better._ Marcus retrieved his own and relaxed a little, sliding back in his seat.

"So what're the breakfasts like here?"

"Palatable. Except for the bacon; really good bacon."

Mariusz bustled through the doorway in time to only hear the end of Marcus' sentence. Setting a coffee cup down, he beamed at the pair of them. Heidi looked up and began to order whatever extravagant breakfast it was a woman like her ate. Marcus used the opportunity to have another look at her. She wore what appeared to be no make-up, but on closer inspection was an extraordinarily subtle eyeliner and mascara, and a pale pink lipstick that was applied so thinly it genuinely looked as though her lips were just that colour. She smiled at Mariusz. Her teeth were an off-white that looked wonderfully natural, not shockingly white as so many women had theirs made artificially, and the gap between the front two was the perfect width to be endearing. He was again interrupted, this time as he heard her say

"...anyway, two bacon sandwiches please."

Marcus started: "No, I'm just having a coffee, I'm not hungry."

She grinned "You might not be, but I am." She proceeded to chuckle, an extraordinary thing for a woman her age to do, but that she pulled off effortlessly, before adding "TWO please" to Mariusz, who quickly scuttled back the way he had come. She shifted in her seat. "So Marcus, tell me about your background."

_Ah, it's started. Bugger it._

And so he told her. He told her about growing up in Middlesbrough. About his life as a kid, and going through school. About how he'd dropped out of London Met University in his first year, and had stayed in London to enlist in the Royal Marines, and his eventual selection for the Special Forces, and the gruelling 19 week training course that had followed. She stared intently the whole time, nodding and retorting politely at all the correct moments, whilst somehow furiously scrawling notes with her left hand at the same time. After an hour, she knew as much about him as any of his closest friends.

"Listen, I've got to go. My editor needs me back at the office."

"Oh." This felt like an abrupt end. He'd built this meeting up in his mind for so long, but all had happened was that he'd talked at her about his life. She hadn't asked him about any of his actual experience in the regiment, which surely was why she had wanted to talk to him in the first place. Then it hit him. He was boring. She'd assumed that he'd be an interesting, swashbuckling, devilish hero in her majesty's service, when actually he was just an awkward bloke in need of a shave. She'd listened just long enough to appear polite, but was now using the pretext of having to leave for the office in order to cut both her losses, and the end of the meeting.

_Fuck, am I really that bad?_

Her phone rang. She snatched it up in one hand whilst gesturing apologetically with the other. Even from the other side of the table, it was clear that the woman on the other end of the line was apoplectic with rage, and the tinny earpiece was just loud enough for her angry cries of 'ridiculous review', 'subjective opinion!', 'offended the ambassador' and 'not supposed to be eaten' to carry to Marcus. Heidi's face remained unchanged as she nodded solemnly at each outburst. When the noise receded, she muttered "I see", and then hung up.

"That was my editor. Apparently I don't make a good art critic. I really will have to go now, but I'll email about another meeting."

She smiled, shook his hand a second time, and all of a sudden Marcus was left alone in the cafe once more, with only some cigarette butts and a dirty plate to convince himself that he hadn't just imagined the whole thing.

He paid and left, trying to ignore the knowing smiles and winks that Mariusz kept giving him as he handed over his change. The air was warmer and clearer now, although it still had a distinctive scent. The east end always had done. The best way to breathe in Dagenham, a pub landlord had once told him, was to 'throw open a window, and stick your head inside the nearest building'. He chuckled and continued on, reaching his front door with nothing short of relief. He started to clamber the stairs, only to have the usual peace of his sanctum interrupted by a shout:

"Hello Burnsy!"

_What. The. Fuck?_

Marcus dashed upstairs and threw open the door into the living room. Tony lay sprawled on the sofa, a can of beer in one hand, the TV remote in the other.

"You really should ask my permission to just come into my house you know Tony." Tony bounced to his feet with all the grace and elegance of an excitable puppy, slopping beer as he did so.

"Never mind that now! What happened? What was she like!"

"Don't you have a job to go to?"

"Early lunch break" Tony cried, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "Now tell me what she was like!"

"She was..." Marcus struggled. "Tall".

"Tall?"

"Tall." Tony looked impressed. Marcus thought further. "And Pretty."

"Pretty?"

"Pretty."

Tony nodded appreciatively; "How tall?"

"About... six foot?" Marcus offered.

"And how pretty?"

Marcus chewed his tongue. "However tall six foot is, that's how pretty she was too."

Tony twisted his face into what he thought was a knowing expression, but that merely made him look constipated. They stood for a moment.

"So is that it then? All done and dusted now?"

"No. She said she'd email me about another meeting."

Tony grinned so widely his head was in danger of splitting in half. "Did she now? Did she indeed?" He laughed enigmatically and shimmied into the kitchen. "Cuppa?"

"Go on then."

Marcus wasn't sure what to think. Did he, and would he continue to, like these meetings? Was it right to be telling a complete stranger such detail about his life? And had he been so struck by her simply because he'd locked himself away for so long? And, most importantly, what was he going to solve by sitting around asking himself rhetorical questions? He reasoned that the logic behind the last question was a bridge too far, especially when it was still morning, so lit another cigarette and turned on the TV to distract himself.

'_BBC TWO - F1: The Monaco Grand Prix: Live'_

Sport. A bit of live sport would distract him no end. He turned it on.

"_Whilst the extent of Bleekenheimer's injuries are still not clear, the violence of the crash and the urgency with which he was removed from his car and taken to hospital suggest-"_

Okay. Maybe not then. Music! A music channel!

"_-paying tribute today to the legendary punk rocker, who lost his battle with cancer last week. The band's groundbr-"_

This was getting ridiculous. The News. How can you go wrong with the news?

"_For a second night the rioting has continued throughout Bradford and Leeds, with police reporting dozens of casualties to officers from petrol bomb and knife attacks. There were sp-"_

Marcus sighed and turned the TV back off. Tony returned, bearing two tea mugs and a packet of biscuits.

"Thought you might need them, so I brought them round"; Tony brandished the digestives.

"I see." Tony had made it sound like he wasn't feeding himself properly. "I can assure you I'm not the sort of man who relies solely upon digestive biscuits for sustenance."

"Ah, but these are chocolate AND... get this? Caramel. I mean, what kind of geni-"

"Tony, can you shut the fuck up about biscuits for a minute? Cheers."

"Tetchy. Still thinking about your journalist friend?"

"No actually, I'm thinking about how the hell you managed to get into my flat."

"Oh, I got a key cut." Such was Tony's character; Marcus accepted this without argument or response. "So when you think she'll get back in touch?"

As it happened, it was two days later. Buoyed by the fact that he hadn't managed to commit some sort of hideous social faux pas the first time round, Marcus replied and had organised another meeting. Two more days, and they were back in the cafe, again alone, except for an overcrowded ashtray, and a by now chronically curious Mariusz.

"So" Heidi began, her courteous smile creasing the lower part of her face. "When did you actually become active in the regiment?"

"Around... 2012 I remember it was"

"I'll understand if this is impertinent or of difficulty, but when was your first operation?"

Marcus sighed and thought back. "You watched the Olympics on TV didn't you?"

"Yes, obviously."

"Let's just say you didn't see everything."

**...**

**July 26****th**** 2012 – 11:54:07**

**Sgt. Marcus Burns**

**22****nd**** SAS Regiment**

**Constitution Hill, Westminster, London. U.K.**

**...**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I've tried to make this chapter as accurate as possible, and I had to do a tad of research to bulk out my own knowledge. All the places in London mentioned are real. I've been personally to them, and tried to describe them accurately (except for the interiors of buildings, which I did fabricate). The Olympic Torch will indeed pass through the route described on 26****th**** July. A 'Custodian' is the traditional British police helmet (you know the one I mean, right?), and having worn one once for a play, I tried to describe the curious sort of dissipated pressure feeling they have on your head. I felt I struggled slightly with the flow of my work in this chapter, so it'd be nice to hear what you think.**

**...**

**26****th ****July 2012 – 11:54:07**

**Sgt. Marcus Burns**

**22****nd**** SAS Regiment**

**Constitution Hill, Westminster, London. U.K.**

It was nearly midday, and for the first time in over a month of the summer, it wasn't raining. Marcus Burns stood mid-way along Constitution Hill, his back to the metal crowd barrier a few feet behind him. The road itself wasn't a household name... in fact Marcus had never heard of it until this morning, but connecting the Mall, Buckingham Palace and Hyde Park Corner, it certainly seemed a pretty important place to be. To Marcus' rear stretched the trees and lawns of Green Park, in front the imposing brick wall that protected Buckingham Palace Gardens, greened and dulled by lichen and years of smog and traffic pollution. To the right, the Wellington Arch twinkled in the rare summer sun, to the left, the north corner of the palace protruded through the trees, and the face of Big Ben reared itself over the top of the Victoria Memorial; Constitution Hill might not have been the most well known, but it was one of the most important arteries in the capital. Marcus mused that it might be because it wasn't on the Monopoly board, I mean, who'd have heard of Vine Street if it weren't one of the orange squares? He started to laugh quietly to himself, then realised that in his current role this probably wasn't the most professional thing to be doing.

When their CO had entered the briefing room, he'd announced that the security of the Olympic Torch as it passed through the capital was a top priority. The day before the Opening Ceremony, the world would be watching, and it was paramount that everything passed off safely and securely. The assembled men had nodded and made seemingly understanding faces. "We'll need men on the ground. Corporal Griffen, you'll be taking charge of Hood, Redgrave, Burns and Wilkinson. Gents, I'll brief you first. You lot are the only buggers here who've got decent foreign language skills, or just people skills at all for that matter. I want you in with the crowd keeping an eye on things. You'll be dressed as coppers, so with all those people watching, keep yourselves sharp." Naturally the rest of the lads had taken the piss. Wallcroft immediately piping up:

"Subtle demotion that eh lads? Burns hasn't even been on a proper op yet and he's having to arse about dressed as a rozzer."

And that had been it. Apparently the powers that be had wanted Special Forces boots on the ground, right in the thick of the action, and Marcus had been one of the men for the job. Despite the taunts of the rest of the regiment, he was thoroughly happy with his first operation; whilst getting measured for the tunic of his police uniform, he'd realised that he was soon to fulfil a boyhood dream that he hadn't even remembered he'd had.

That had been a week ago: Now he was stood up straight savouring the feel of his custodian; legendary, iconic symbol of British institutional eccentricity that it was, pressing down ever so slightly on his head, its weight dissipated by its perfect fit. He looked down, and refrained from once again fidgeting with the silver pocket watch chain dangling about the front of his tunic. Very few policemen outside popular tourist areas actually dressed in the full traditional uniform anymore. In the main the tunic was replaced with lightweight coats that from a distance gave the same aesthetic affect, or else fluorescent jackets for high visibility, or even just a stab vest over the officer's shirt and tie. However, during occasions of international interest, all officers donned the iconic and recognisable deep blue. To a certain extent this was simply because they looked so much smarter, although ostensibly it was to maintain the illusion of the quaint and old fashioned Britain that so many ill informed foreigners inexplicably adhered to. It seemed appropriate to perpetuate the positive misapprehension by dressing hundreds of police officers and security forces in a uniform that hadn't changed since the 1950s, especially during the most momentous and internationally scrutinised event to have graced the nation in decades.

And Marcus was part of it. He'd grown up idolising policemen. He remembered how as a kid he'd followed the copper who used to walk his beat past their house, asking him questions and trying to help him with his duties. Constable Robinson the bloke's name had been; an unfailingly patient man, who hadn't minded spending half an hour of each working day telling an inquisitive eight year old why his tie was a clip on, and what his stab vest was for.

The memory, dormant for years, had floated back into Marcus' mind as he straightened his own tie. He felt immeasurably proud. Nineteen weeks of hideous training had been spent imagining what he'd do on his first op, and how well it'd go, with everything from hostage rescue to hostile satellite recovery playing out in his mind. But this was better. Today was his first op, and he was spending it upholding one of Britain's most cherished traditions. He looked at his shoulders. Whilst a private in the regiment, the specialist tailors that made his tunic had fitted it with Sergeant's epaulettes. By the time his furious CO had discovered the mistake, it had been too late to change. The white embroidery of each chevron winked in the sun, as if cheekily telling him that they knew they shouldn't be there. This was a just reward for the pain of selection. He again allowed himself to smile.

The radio on his right breast buzzed. It was Wallcroft's voice "Sierra One this is Bravo Six. We are in position and all objectives are green."

Wallcroft had been immensely proud to be given the 'Bravo Six' callsign. Previously the preserve of the legendary John Price, who, whilst MIA, was still revered and respected by everyone who'd worked with him. He was a man so seemingly effervescent that his presence and influence was still felt, even when he'd been presumed dead or captured for nearly a year.

Now it was Griffen's voice that burst from the speaker "Roger Bravo Six. All five Sierra One assets are in place. Everything green." The five of them who were on the ground had been placed along the last part of the day's route, apparently at the most susceptible areas: Piccadilly Circus, Charing Cross, Westminster, The Palace, Constitution Hill, and Hyde Park Corner. They'd been informed brusquely that security around Downing Street and much of the rest of the route was to be handled by Military Intelligence officers, and other drafted soldiers.

Marcus looked up and down the road at the assembled officers and wondered how many like him, was carrying a fully automatic Glock 18 at one hip and a Browning High-Power at the other. They'd been allowed to choose their own weapons, albeit in the case of Sierra Team, they had to fit neatly and surreptitiously into a police uniform. Again, ribbing had come his way for his choice of the Browning; most of the rest of the lads used a P99 or a H&K USP. But Marcus had used a High-Power before and felt more secure with a sidearm that had been in service for more than 60 years, proving itself to be reliable and practical.

A child's voice behind Marcus shouted out above the din of the crowd "I'm shüldigen sie? Polizist?" He turned to see a girl no more than six or seven reaching out to him, German flag clutched in one hand, a camera in the other. Her father quickly stepped forward.

"Could you a photo of us take?"

Marcus grinned. Looked like his 'people and language skills' would actually come in handy.

"Ja". He took the camera from the German, and waited for his wife and daughter to settle into the picture. "Sehen Käse!" He took the picture and handed the camera back. "Wilkommen zum England" he beamed, and turned back to face the road. He felt unnecessary here. Despite the thousands of people of all nationalities lining the streets, there was simply no trouble whatsoever. Although of course he was here to prevent a very different type of trouble.

He began to scan the crown once more on the opposite side of the road. Completely normal. Just a sea of happy faces. Men and women of every age, ethnicity and nationality. Union Jacks waved frantically everywhere, interspersed with other flags, a French tricolore, an Israeli star of David and the Stars and Stripes bobbing up momentarily into his field of vision. The hype for the Olympics had been huge, but Marcus hadn't really bought into it. However looking now, seeing the crowd all cheering on the torch, completely united regardless of race, gender, religion, political belief, language or nationality, he thought that maybe he finally got it.

Then something caught his eye. But it was nothing. Or was it? A man was leaning against the crowd barrier on the opposite side of the road. What was it about him that seemed amiss? The man shifted to his left and Marcus knew why his instincts had prickled. A bulge in the left breast of his jacket was visible. Surely not. He watched him for a few moments more. All of a sudden a burly man appeared and jostled him, disturbing his open jacket. Holstered inside there was a handgun of some kind.

Marcus started, then calmed. There were secret servicemen everywhere. This bloke could easily be there doing exactly the same job as him. He certainly blended perfectly into the crowd, a skill that the MI5 boys were particularly proud of. He put on his best policeman's persona and marched across the road.

"Excuse me sir, I need to ask do you ha-"

The man thrust his hands forward and shoved Marcus with huge force; he staggered backwards ten feet, needing all his balance to stay upright. He reared forwards, letting forth a cry of "GET BACK!" before vaulting the barrier in pursuit of the cropped hair and sports jacket now shoulder barging its way towards the pavement. People moved apart much more readily the recognisable uniform and Marcus emerged from the back of the crowd to the sight of the man already sprinting off to the left, west towards the palace. Tearing after the man, a quandary presented itself: Should he un-holster a weapon, seeing how he was dealing with what he knew to be an armed man, but inevitably then cause panic amongst the crowd, a few of whom were already turning to watch the chase? He decided against arming himself. The most important objective of the day was preventing a disturbance, and at the moment the man was merely running, rather than presenting any sort of a threat. He immediately regretted the decision. Another cop burst from the crowd ahead of the man, apparently having seen him push Marcus and arrived to assist. The armed man immediately thrust his hand into his jacket and produced a handgun, now just feet from the other cop.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Don't cause a disturbance? A copper gunned down in the street isn't not going to cause a disturbance at all. FUCK._

Marcus immediately drew his Glock, by now the man and the police officer were upon each other. A momentary struggle and two massive blows from a baton later, the man was disarmed and out cold. Marcus steamrollered onto the scene just seconds later, surveying the unconscious man and extraordinarily unperturbed policeman, who looked up.

"Bloody hell, didn't know there were any gun coppers about today. We need to get this bloke reported straight away to the-"Marcus held up a hand.

"Burns, SAS. I'll deal with this." He got down on one knee and cuffed the man, before picking up the gun from the pavement and placing it carefully at his own side. He jabbed his radio. "Sierra One, this is Asset Four. I just chased and took down a bloke who had a handgun on him. He acted pretty fucking suspicious. He's knocked out and I've cuffed him. I'm gonna search him. I'll update you in a minute."

The radio immediately crackled. "Understood" came Griffen's voice "I'll relay it to Baseplate and Bravo Six. Christ, look him over thoroughly will you?"

Marcus spun the man over onto his back. The copper crouched down to help.

"Didn't know you Special Forces chaps went around pretending to be us? Something serious going on here?

"One of the perks of the job" Marcus chuckled. "And there could be, this fella didn't seem like he wanted to see either of us very much. The way you took him down was bloody heroic if you don't mind me saying, what with him waving a gun at you and all. What's your handle?"

The copper smiled. "Arthur Meadows. Constable. Cheers. I suppose that should mean something coming from one of your lot"

Marcus jerked his head in a non-committal fashion before beginning to search the unconscious man. He'd already removed the man's gun, which disturbingly was a Browning of a similar model to his own, and so moved on to his other pockets. His jeans produced a mobile phone. Again Marcus laid it at his side. The inside jacket pocket behind the man's holster was empty. The other pocket had two fairly large pieces of paper in it.

"Sierra One, this is Asset Four, CODE BLACK. This fella's got shit in his pockets. One's a map of Central London with loads of labels drawn on it, the other's some sort of itinerary. I fucking need youse lot down here now. This intel is a potential Code Black. I've got his phone too; it's a cheap pay as you go, the sort that isn't easily traceable. Sneaky cunt." Marcus noticed dimly that in the heat of the moment his North-East accent had intensified significantly, but now wasn't the time for him to worry about perceptions, and he set about again searching the pockets of the man to make sure there wasn't anything he'd missed.

"This is Sierra One. All callsign assets are en route. I've informed Baseplate and Bravo Six, and opened us all up onto the same radio channel. Collective ETA 3 minutes".

Marcus looked up, Meadows was keeping back the dozen or so bystanders that had now arrived to see what the commotion was. No other police seemed to have arrived, and very few of the crowd seemed to have noticed anything was wrong. He realised that the location of the incident was fortunate, as it wasn't visible from the road, and was a fair distance back from even the last stragglers of the spectators.

"Sierra One, this is Asset Four. Me and the tango are on the pavement behind the crowd, repeat, behind the crowd."

"Oh, Bollocks" said a breathless voice through the speaker that sounded suspiciously like Griffen.

"This is Bravo Six, so it sounds like we're dealing with some sort of... Muslim terrorist group here right?"

Immediately a cacophony erupted from the radio, of which was discernible was:

"Cut the chatter Bravo Six.", "Stop jumping to bloody conclusions Alistair", and "Will you stop letting your bastard mouth go off Wallcroft."

Marcus waited for it to abate before answering calmly. "Bravo Six this is Sierra One asset four. The tango is Caucasian, and appears to be wearing a crucifix." He pored over the papers. A building on the west side of Trafalgar Square opposite Charing Cross station was highlighted orange, with "Position N" scrawled next to it. Spattered across the square itself were other annotations and dots, marked in the same stark orange, including a mark near Nelson's column marked "Deposit D". This and the building on the west side of the square seemed to be the focus.

"Burnsy, we'll be there in 10 seconds fella" crackled Wilkinson's Yorkshire drawl.

Sure enough, the aforementioned appeared tearing down the pavement with Griffen, Hood, and Redgrave. Griffen produced a plastic bag and threw the gun into it, before snatching up the phone and papers. He stared at them for a moment, before whipping round.

"Fuck me. What time is it?"

Redgrave was hovering behind him. "Errrm."

"WHAT FUCKING TIME IS IT?"

Marcus rescued the situation "12:11. Why?"

The colour drained from Griffen's face as quick as though someone had just pulled a bath plug. "Look at the itinerary".

Marcus took it and looked. Written in block capitals was "12:34. OLYMPIC FLAME IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. GREEN LIGHT BOTH PRIMARY OBJECTIVES. 2 MINUTE WINDOW."

Griffen quickly regained himself, and drew in Wilkinson who'd been in discussion with Meadows a few feet away. He pressed his radio button, transmitting as he spoke. "Listen boys. We've got a fucking massive situation here. A shit-storm's gonna go off in twenty minutes time or so in Trafalgar Square. We don't know what, or who. We just know where. Bravo Six, get to the end of The Mall, RV on Spring Gardens, behind the arch. Do not go anywhere from there. Sierra One out."

For once in his life Wallcroft was co-operative. "Understood Sierra One. ETA 3 minutes. We'll try to make it less."

Griffen now took charge: "Right. Burns, Redgrave." He gestured to the unconscious and cuffed man. "Let's get this bastard taken with us. Hood, Wilkinson. Clear a path for them."

Marcus and Redgrave grabbed the man beneath the armpits and half ran through the parted crowd and barriers onto the road; where Griffen was throwing open the doors of a Range Rover.

"Shove him in the boot" yelled Griffen, opening it. "Fuck him." They obliged, and hastily removing their custodians, piled into the car with the rest of them, Wilkinson in the driving seat. Before they'd even shut the doors, they were accelerating away, the closed off roads giving them free reign to speed. Griffen turned in his seat to yell to the other three, simultaneously activating his radio. "We know what building they're in. The intel we recovered shows that the main tango position is in Malaysia House, repeat, Malaysia House. We'll need to find a point of entry when we get there. There's another tango position marked just near Nelson's Column. We'll need to get boots there to find what's happening."

"Baseplate copies."

"Bravo Six copies,"

By now they were nearing the end of The Mall. Wilkinson threw the heavy car to the left, defacing the famous red tarmac with two huge black lines, before screeching to a halt at the end of the narrow cobbled street. They piled out just in time to see two more identical Range Rovers carrying Bravo Six arrive. Wallcroft and the other nine flooded onto the pavement; dressed in black combat gear, they looked as conspicuous as a teetotaller at a music festival. The two teams converged, Wallcroft and Griffen in the centre of the scrum.

Griffen shouted above the distant traffic and crowd noise "We've got no time, the main force of us needs to get into Malaysia house, and sweep and cle-"

"Sir" cried Hood from near one of the cars. "Sir! He's coming to."

Sierra One hastily retreated back to the Range Rover as Hood wrenched open the boot lid. Griffen threw the man from the car onto the cobbles with seemingly as much violence as he could muster, though his voice remained as calm as if he were discussing the weather.

"Tell me everything you know. Now"

"Who the feck are you?" The man was Irish.

Griffen withdrew a USP. "I'm the man who's going to make impressionist street art out of your hypothalamus if you don't tell me everything you know now".

"Listen pal, I don't know what you're tal-"

Griffen kicked the cuffed man over, before calmly and slowly screwing a suppressor onto his USP, seemingly deliberately exuding an air of inexorability.

"Seriously, I have no idea what the feck you're talking about."

Griffen smiled, and paused for a moment. A spasm of his finger, and the USP coughed, embedding a bullet in the cobbles an inch or so from the Irishman's ear.

"Fecking hell man! Okay! A bomb's gonna be planted in the square somewhere near Nelson's column. There's a sniper position on the fourth floor of the Malaysia Building. That's all I know, I swear!"

Griffen smiled "That wasn't too hard was it?" He turned to Wilkinson, Hood and Redgrave, and thrust the map into their hands. "You three get to the square and find the explosive, do whatever you can." Before he'd finished speaking they were already piling back into the Range Rover, throwing a weapons locker to Marcus in the process. As he followed the lead of the rest, and began tooling up, Wallcroft bustled past, bellowing into his radio.

"For the love of- This is Special asset Bravo Six. I FUCKING ORDER YOU TO SEND OFFICERS TO SPRING GARDENS AND DETAI- SECURITY CLEARANCE LEVEL ONE – CODEWORD 'MONTGOMERY'. SPRING GARDENS, DETAIN THE FUCKING MAN I DESCRIBED TO YOU!" He flicked off the radio and proceeded to spew a tirade of obscenities about the police.

Marcus opened up the locker, and retrieved an SD suppressed variant H&K MP5. He removed his tunic and affixed another ammunition pouch to his waist to hold its rounds, as well as grabbing four flashbangs and frags. He looked up and saw Griffen doing the same whilst peering towards the end of the road nervously. Marcus slung the MP5 over himself and turned to see a group of people, seemingly late to catch the torch relay, instead stopping at the end of the road to watch them. He realised the cause of Griffen's concern; a dozen armed men in the street was bound to cause a stir and alert whoever it was who was in the square and Malaysia House; they'd have to move quickly alright. Marcus looked back at Griffen.

"Sir?"

"Burns?"

"Have you got Kevlar under your shirt and tie?"

"No. Have you?"

"No."

They stood for a moment. Then Wallcroft's cries of "Everyone ready, we gotta move lads!" jolted them back to reality. They moved quickly down to the end of the road, crossed, and hugged the wall so that they were on the same side as the target building.

"Baseplate, how long have we got and do you have us a point of entry".

"Bravo Six, there's a door at the end of the street that opens directly onto the pavement. The construction of the building means it can't be seen from any of the ground floor windows. Breach quickly though, you'll be completely exposed and visible on the street. You've got about 15 minutes."

"Copy that Baseplate".

Wallcroft held up his hand at the front of the queue. "Everyone check weapons. Silencers, sidearms, frags and flashbangs. Griffen and I are going in first. Keep it tight and listen to our instructions on the radio. Let's fucking do this."

Marcus was third in the line of men now moving down the pavement. The road curved away slightly along with the grey stone of the building to their left. The subtle change meant that they were indeed now in full view of the entire street, hideously exposed to any prying eyes that would happen to be looking. To the left the confines of the buildings opened out into Trafalgar Square, crowd barriers holding back the thousands of people gathered to see the Olympic torch on its last day of travel before the beginning of the games. Further away, the Trafalgar fountains played host to latecomers; the inexorable edifice of Nelson's Column partially obscuring tardy spectators climbing atop the famous bronze lions to gleam a better view of the procession. Marcus felt vaguely ridiculous; preparing to go into action for the first time whilst standing on an ordinary central London street. Whilst he attempted to push the thought from his mind, a passerby draped in a Union Jack accosted Wallcroft. Before he could even speak he received a push.

"SAS matey. Walk away. Now." The man did, glancing over his shoulder, half jogging towards the square.

Neither Wallcroft nor Marcus had time to compose themselves; had they looked, their respective watches would have told them that it was now twenty past the hour. They stacked up on the door and stood momentarily. Then Wallcroft thrust his size eleven boot into the partition between the two pieces of classical oak panelling. The doors were open and yielded instantly, springing backwards in a movement nearly as rapid as that of the men who scythed inside.

They found themselves in a small reception area. Plush red carpeting led off through white framed glass doors to the left, and to a monstrous (thankfully deserted) bar to the right. Directly opposite the now devastated door was a curving marble staircase. Wallcroft immediately began leading them forwards, presumably thinking that with so little time, it was wiser to get to the fourth floor where they knew there was a tango position.

The landing they sprinted onto was at the intersection of two corridors. Both appeared to have offices leading off from them. Wallcroft and Griffen ran to the end of each and scanned it down their sights.

"Baseplate, at minimal search, ground and first appear empty. Proceeding to second."

"Roger Bravo Six."

Wallcroft spun backwards: "Burns, take point".

The next staircase led directly off the first, although was smaller and less grand, an austere construction designed to quash the spirits of office workers under an endless procession of stainless steel and glass. Marcus clutched at his MP5 and charged up it, not giving himself time to think about how at Wallcroft's words most of his internal organs had attempted to escape through his throat. He reached the top and took in a T-junction, the staircase seemingly coming out halfway down a corridor. He started forwards before instinctively looking right. A man in jeans and a cammo combat shirt leapt to his feet halfway down the corridor. Marcus raised his MP5 and bellowed.

"SAS. Put your hands o-"

The man reached to his right, swinging the wooden butt of a Kalashnikov round into a firing position. Marcus squeezed the trigger. Two shots blasted into the man's chest, throwing him backwards and leaving him motionless on the desk he'd been leaning on. The rest had arrived behind. Griffen peered down the corridor.

"Bollocks." He ejaculated. "Looks like they've got men watching the lowers. Doesn't seem like we've alerted anyone mind. Nice shooting Burns, we'd better press on before they find him."

Griffen proceeded to tear up the next set of stairs. Marcus rejoined halfway back down the line, and nervousness set in again as he was jostled on the small staircase by the men he barely knew, but whose co-operation he was depending upon for his survival.

A volley of shots rang out as Marcus broke up onto the third floor. They'd emerged into some sort of waiting area, and he sprinted left to stack up at the wall with the others; the only cover within reach having already been taken by Wallcroft, Griffen and three others, whom whilst throwing himself to the left he'd glimpsed behind an ageing sofa and several chairs, firing shots towards a door at the far end of the waiting area and a reception desk in the middle of it. Just seconds later the unmistakable 'thrup' of a burst of suppressed weapons fire was followed by "Clear!" from Wallcroft. Infuriatingly, the staircase on this floor was not adjacent to the previous one, and the lino flooring made a hideous cacophony of squealing as they all joined up to discuss strategy for the final floor. To Marcus it felt as if the building were conspiring against them. Luckily Wallcroft's head was more tightly screwed on:

"We've got to find a way up onto the next floor! Barton, Newcastle. You take the left corridor." He gestured to where Marcus and the rest had just stacked up. "Lovejoy, you take the right. Griffen, Burns, straight onwards for us boys."

They pressed forward into the waiting area, the furthest reach of which was mercifully carpeted. One of the men they'd just dropped lay sprawled next to the door.

"Weird." Griffen mused, looking down. Wallcroft was already hurling himself through the door. He paused.

"What?"

"This guy was using an AR-18." He flitted to the reception desk and leant over the bullet ridden counter. "So was the other one. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

They continued on, the doorway leading onto yet another anonymous corridor bordered by offices.

"Probably" Wallcroft grimaced. "Trying my fuck hardest not to."

Marcus would have bet his life he was thinking the same too. The AR-18 had gained notoriety as the weapon of choice of the provisional IRA, although no 'widowmakers' as the republicans had christened them had been used by dissidents since the ceasefire of 1998. Moments later a burst of static seemed to confirm their hypothesis.

"Special asset Bravo Six this is Chief Inspector James Broadbent. The man you requested has indeed been apprehended and taken into custody. We've got his name and background checked it. He's Kieran Kelly. British citizen. Born and raised in Enniskillen. That's all we can tell you for now. Out."

The three of them continued on along the corridor in silence. The air of trepidation was now palpable – the suspicion that they were fighting some sort of Irish republican group made their enemy seem somehow more tangible, and with knowledge of republican atrocities committed in the past, much more dangerous. They ploughed onwards. The corridor was a dead end.

"Fuck! We've got to find a way up there!" Wallcroft paced furiously up and down the end confines of the corridor, as if by repeatedly walking it, he could make an entrance to the floor above materialise.

A radio that had been left on in one of the deserted offices chortled merrily, its noise somehow making the silence they stood in feel even more absolute.

"_Radio 1 playing the best of British all day. Coming up we've got Radiohead, Adele, Muse, Pulp, Gorillaz and some classics from The Cure and The Smiths. But first here's an absolute belter from The Prodigy – Invaders Must D-"_

Wallcroft had barged his way into the office in order to completely destroy the small portable radio, hurling it at a wall before grinding a sea of broken plastic into the cheap carpet with his boot. He fumed silently for a moment.

"...Hey ...Hey lads get in here!"

Marcus and Griffen tore into the room. Wallcroft was in the corner throwing open a metal fire door in the corner. He glanced out. "Yeah, there's a fire escape out here. It goes up onto the next floor."

They tramped out, the metal staircase holding up surprisingly well under their combined weight.

"Why the fuck wasn't the fire escape in the corridor!" Griffen cried, banging the metal handrail in frustration "We wasted ages."

Silently Marcus berated Griffen; that sort of architectural quirk was to be expected in an old building that had been refurbished and regenerated. Couldn't the man keep his head? Then he looked down at his watch and realised they had eight minutes left, and had just wasted two searching the corridor for a fire escape. His contempt for Griffen's outburst dissolved instantly. They reached the top, and stacked up on the narrow and rickety staircase. Marcus couldn't help but stare through the metal grating at just how far down the patchwork grid of cobbles of the road below was. Wallcroft's shout made him look up and focus.

"Three, two, ONE!" He smashed the fire door open and immediately began firing. Griffen and Marcus stormed in after him. He'd already dropped two men in the hallway they'd emerged into the end of. This floor of the building was different, the corridors were bare concrete, and it looked as if the rooms were used for storage.

"We gotta split up, we got 7 minutes left." Griffen cried, dashing through a door on the right. "Burns, go left."

Marcus entered a door on the left side of the corridor. This area was indeed used for storage; the concrete and bare plaster room stacked with boxes felt cavernous when compared with the claustrophobic office space of the floors below. As Marcus began working his way towards the end of a line of boxes, heavy gunfire began exploding seemingly simultaneously around much of the floor, echoing dully through the walls. He swung himself round. Three men sat around a table clutching automatic weapons.

Th-thrup. Th-thrup.

Two were down. The third was too quick and fired a burst, prompting Marcus to hurl himself left to the relative shelter of another wall of boxes. More bursts. Cardboard and polystyrene packaging whirled round as the man opened fire on Marcus' shelter, engulfing him like some fallacy of a snow globe. He withdrew his Glock and sidled back around the way he'd come. The man was firing at the boxes from point blank range. By the time he looked round to his left; Marcus was firing an automatic burst that planted three 19mms in his chest. He holstered the Glock once more and continued to the end of the room. Another door. What was it these guys were defending?

He threw it open. Another corridor. Clear right. Left, armed man. He raised his MP5 and double tapped. His movement meant that his aim was off; the bullets struck the man in the neck and face. The way the man crumpled, his Kalashnikov clattering to the ground left Marcus in no doubt that he were dead, though he nevertheless looked resolutely up as he passed the body, which was now omitting a horrifying bubbling noise.

He reached the end of the corridor; there was a movement to his right. He raised his MP5.

"Fuck me, friendly! Is that you Burns?"

Sergeant Lovejoy and four others were running up a staircase. Lovejoy came over. "Had a nightmare getting up here, the staircase was barricaded. Jones!" he gestured to a door adjacent to the one they'd just arrived through, "Take point and see what's in there." Jones obliged. There was a shout, a bang, and Jones fell back through the doorway, bleeding profusely. Marcus ran forwards to help, but Lovejoy pushed him away from the door. "Get back to your own lot. We've got too little time; we've got to split up to have any chance of doing this."

Marcus backtracked and reached the intersection. He considered going back in search of Griffen and Wallcroft. But the sight of one of Lovejoy's men on one knee firing into the room convinced him that the route back would be difficult to navigate quickly. This was compounded when a burst of plaster from a bullet strike on the wall caught the man in the face, lacerating him badly. He went left, into a part of the building that seemingly none of the others had yet explored; a corridor with doors leading from it, all on the right hand side.

He approached the first, a faded 1970s construction with dry rot around the edges. A light kick and it sprung back from its hinges, clattering to the floor. Marcus stomped onto it and into another of the cavernous storage rooms. However this one had small and fairly grimy windows on the far wall, and far fewer boxes, leaving his line of sight clear to count four tangos, three gathered against the far wall, one leaning just a couple of feet to his right to his right.

Thanking god for his left handedness, he fired a burst one handed at the three at the end of the room, emptying the remainder of the magazine, killing two and earning the third a permanent desk job, all before they'd even raised their weapons to fire. At the same time he tensed his right hand, before swinging it side first as hard as possible at the fourth man's face. It landed perfectly on target at the bottom of his nose, shattering and impacting it inwards into his brain, killing him instantly. He staggered off balance before regaining himself and reloading his MP5, letting the spent magazine fall to the ground with a satisfying clatter. The room had no other entrances or exits, and after wiping the blood from the side of his hand onto his trousers, he retraced his steps back into the corridor. The entire building was now full of the sound off muffled gunfire from the other rooms; presumably the rest of them were pinned down in heavier fighting than he himself had encountered. He looked back, the air at the end of the corridor was thick with dust, and the only movement was that of one man giving CPR to another, the latter presumably the badly wounded Jones. It looked like he was on his own.

He turned and looked down the other end of the corridor. There was one door left. One door behind which he could pretty much assume was the only room on the floor that had yet to be searched. Whatever the 'Position N' was that had been marked on the map... it was presumably behind this door.

He looked back into the dust of the fire-fight. The man who'd been attending to Jones had gone. Marcus briefly considered going back into the fray in order to fetch others to help him tackle the final room. Then he looked down at his watch.

'12:31'. There were three minutes left, he didn't have time. He positioned himself directly in front of the door, cocked and raised his MP5, and kicked out as hard as he could.

The door blasted open. This room was far smaller than the others and appeared to be on the corner of the building. It was completely packed with ammunition crates, some of which had been made into makeshift seats and desks. Tarpaulins littered the floor, several with weapons and equipment laid out on them. The room had just one window in the far corner, slightly in an alcove. It had ammo crates and sandbags built up into a firing position, and a man stood up against it, training his eyes down the sights of what (from Marcus limited view of the side construction) appeared to be an M82.

There were people in the room, lots of them. Marcus didn't pause to count, or even to perceive, he just fired at anything with a human shape. A man sitting on an ammo crate facing the door, a man tending to some weapons in the corner, the man operating the sniper rifle, two poring over a table. All fell by Marcus's hands, many as they were turning to see why those around them were screaming out and collapsing to the ground. He rounded on the last figure, sat at a makeshift table in front of a laptop. He'd turned; the manic eyes boring into Marcus were as dark as the barrel of the Beretta now being levelled at him. The figure chuckled, a thin smile playing across a pale face partially obscured by wayward fringes of jet black hair.

"I knew this wouldn't be easy, but look at this now."

He was incapable of pronouncing the 'w' in 'now'; He was Northern Irish. Marcus's stomach tied itself into an intricate knot.

"Look how fecking far we've come. You've no idea what's going on here do you?" He flashed Marcus a look of utter contempt, his lip curling. Marcus was almost paralysed, he could see the barrel of the Beretta moving infinitesimally as the man's hand holding it twitched and moved about as one's hands naturally do when stressed. Then, as the initial burst of adrenaline and fear dissipated, he once again felt the watch strapped round his wrist. Less than three minutes.

"SAS." He said as forcefully as he could. "Drop the weapon." The man's face split into a massive grin.

"Drop my weapon?" He tittered "You want me to drop my weapon?" He continued to smile manically, his eyes popping slightly. "Do you mean the one in my right hand?" He jerked the Beretta upwards "Or the one in my left?" he wiggled a couple of the fingers on his left that was resting on a laptop keyboard.

"Y-Your left?" Marcus stammered, negating any allusion to authoritativeness.

"The laptop" Nodded the man condescendingly. "I guess you found us in here, but there's something else you don't know about... 750 pounds of it in fact. Just outside in the square. You've seen how people there are out there right? One push of the manual override button and they're all dead. You know your history right? Remember Omagh? This is half as big again and right in the middle of the crowd. In two minutes the torch will be here. We won't be able to take out the torch carrier on international TV, but there'll be a fecking big statement, and damn near 500 dead sports fans.

Marcus started. "That's where you're wrong. We did know about the bomb. We've got men on the ground searching for it. Pushing that button will do absolutely nothing."

"Oh, you've got men on the ground have you?" he cried in a sing-song sarcastic voice. "This isn't the 1990s. We don't just shove bombs in cars any more. Good luck finding it, you stupid fecker. Your lads haven't radioed to say they've found it have they? Stupid bastards'll be looking for a car. But we thought ahead. We're not Sinn Fein or the PIRA. We're the real fecking deal. Literally you might say."

Marcus was reeling. Panic rose up and threatened to completely consume him as he replayed the man's words: "We're the real deal. Literally." He was standing face to face with a member of the Real IRA. They'd proved 14 years ago in Omagh that mass civilian death and injury was superfluous if it helped them achieve their cause, and all it'd take was a twitch of this madman's finger for it to happen again, but ten times worse. He no longer needed to look at his watch. The man had a huge clock counting down on his laptop indicating how long until the time arrived. He'd have been struck by how much of an absurd cliché this was if it were not reading out at 1 minute and 1 second.

He had no options. Even if he opened fire, it was more than likely that the force of the bullets would jerk the man and make him press the button. His fingers were actually resting on the 'Enter' key. A tiny muscle spasm of any kind would detonate the bomb, never mind him being thrown backwards by the force of the bullets. The fact that he himself also had a gun trained on him now didn't even come into the equation. It was the bomb that mattered. Whichever way he looked at it, the Irishman held all the cards. He did the only thing he could. He kept him talking to gain some thinking time. Although even this in itself was essentially fruitless, he'd mentioned a 'manual override', suggesting that the figure on screen was the time till a pre-programmed detonation. He tried anyway.

"What's the point in doing this? Ireland's been at relative peace for a decade now. If you set off that bomb, it'll start a chain reaction, and before you know it, there'll be troops in the streets again, and sectarian bombing and civilian shootings maybe even worse than before. Surely that isn't what you want? The majority of people in the North are just content with peace. I'd know, I've fucking been."

The man furrowed his brow. The clock ticked down to 46 seconds.

"The point?" he whispered "Let me tell you something you English shit-bag. I grew up in a little town called Derry. You may have heard of it. In my family everyone always used to talk about my uncle. He was a doctor, he was brave and handsome and funny; he was revered. They always said he'd have loved to meet me. But he couldn't. And do you know why? One afternoon in 1972 he went out to a civil rights protest. The kid next to him was shot by a British paratrooper on patrol. He ran over to help waving a white flag. He was shot in the head and killed by another of your fecking so called 'security forces'. 13 unarmed protestors died that day. People complained when the Chinese were given the Olympics because of their human rights record. Nobody ever stopped to fecking think about the United Kingdom's human rights record. Maybe they will after this. Maybe they will when my uncle's gotten his revenge."

Marcus could barely think straight. Whilst he obviously knew of The Bogside Massacre, its victims had never really seemed all that real to him.

17 seconds.

He fought with all his might to think of a way of getting the man away from the computer, but there simply was none.

13 seconds.

He had to think outside the box here. What if there was some way of moving the computer away from the man?

11 seconds.

No, he was too far away, and it was up against the wall, so he couldn't shoot it off the crate backwards. Was there a way of disabling it somehow?

9 seconds. Outside Marcus could hear cheering; the torch was in the square and was nearing the building. The man heard it too:

"Better think fast. Surely you wouldn't want your Olympics spoiled by a big Republican publicity stunt?"

He managed to keep his train of thought. There were two leads leading from the right hand side of the laptop. A power cable and a USB connection to an external hard-drive resting on the crate. But then how were they planning on detonating the bomb remotely? The man shifted, revealing a small box attached to the left of the laptop. A small areal aerial protruded from it.

3 seconds.

With nothing left to lose, Marcus aimed and fired. The plastic box was completely obliterated by three well aimed rounds. The computer buzzed, a message appearing on its screen. The Irishman wheeled around. Marcus withdrew his High Power and started to approach. Without warning the Beretta flew upwards and aimed itself.

"I don't think so matey." Marcus blasted two rounds into the Irishman's leg, sending him into a spasm that threw the gun from his hand and left him prostrate on the ground. The bleeding was huge; almost instantaneously saturating his trouser leg and spilling through onto the ground; one of the bullets having clearly torn an artery. Stepping over this with only mild disdain, Marcus peered at the computer screen.

[Wireless Device Disconnected:]

[OPERATIONAL SEQUENCE ABORTED.]

[0.00:02]

He moved to the window and clambered onto the firing position. The torch carrier was already out of sight, and people in their hundreds were already beginning to leave the square.

Marcus approached the door, content to leave the bleeding Irishman to cry in agony for a few moments while he found the others. He was reaching for his radio when Lovejoy's voice echoed.

"I saw him going down there."

The gunfire seemed to have ceased, something that Marcus had until now failed to notice. Now it was Griffen's voice that resonated down the corridor. "Christ. On his own you say? Looks like it's going to be another." There was a plip of a radio turning on. "Baseplate as far as I can gather at the moment we've not secured anything actionable, initial count 21 tangos down. Wilkinson, Hood and Redgrave didn't find anything on the ground, and nothing happened down there. As of now this makes fuck all sense. Griffen out." Marcus heard him tramping up the corridor towards the room. Marcus poked his head out.

"Sir?"

"Holy shit Burns, what the hell have you been up to?"

"Rather a lot actually, now will you come and help me with this fella; I think I might have blasted out his femoral artery."

Griffen arrived in the doorway of the room, and stayed there for around a minute. If his jaw had dropped any lower, it'd have dislocated.

"You... this was... this is why... Jesus Christ Burns."

"Sir, I'd be delighted to hear your congratulations later, but right now we've got to triage this fella, he's a walking piece of intel." Griffen just looked at him. "Well, not strictly walking any more, but you get my drift."

At that moment Wallcroft and the others arrived.

...

Marcus stubbed out his cigarette. "I'll never forget the look on Alistair's face. Think that's the only time he's ever looked shocked."

The cafe was now slightly hazy; the pair of them having practically chain smoked their way through the interview. A tiny black cassette recorder sat between them, the spindles on the tape still turning obediently, just visible through a clear plastic frontage that over 20 years after its manufacture was now so scratched it had become almost opaque. Heidi had seemed genuinely absorbed: leaving the recorder taping and then listening to the story, head resting on her hands and never breaking eye contact due to her apparent raptness. Although again Marcus' cynical streak raised the possibility that she'd simply gotten good at giving this impression because she was a journalist.

"I don't know what it was, but once I knew that it was over, the relief just made me keep saying ridiculously blasé and cocky things. Fact is, I was shitting myself for most of it."

"So what happened afterwards?"

"We took the fella outside and he was transferred to an ambulance. He lost a lot of blood but survived. Obviously a massive police investigation team moved in and started cleaning up the whole building. We re-convened with Wilkinson, Hood and Redgrave. They said they'd searched the whole area around the square and found no sign of explosives. With the police investigation taking over, we told them the gist of what had happened, then essentially packed up and left. When I got back the CO was waiting for me. He'd already heard what'd happened. I was made Sergeant on the spot, and the Sergeant's police uniform was mine to keep. I won't pretend that I didn't fucking love that. I didn't really celebrate at all though. The lads were absolutely over the moon at what we'd done, but Jones had been killed. I'd not known the man well at all, but he was really well liked. Wilkinson put a brave face on it, but he didn't stop crying in private about Jonesy for weeks."

Heidi nodded, pursing and flattening out her lips understandingly. That or she was just licking her teeth. The thought of the interior of Heidi's mouth made Marcus lose his train of thought entirely, and he took a moment to regain himself, during which he realised he'd been staring at her lips.

"Things picked up pretty fast after that. Police investigators found that road surfacing work had been done about 3 weeks before in the square, and that two of the IRA men we'd killed on the day were labourers for the construction firm that carried out the resurfacing work. Obviously, they dug it up. Apparently there was over 700 pounds of explosive in there, buried just under the road surface next to Nelson's Column. They'd placed it all around a gas main too. Had the thing gone off, half of Trafalgar Square would probably have gone with it. The fucking mental revenge bloke who'd been in charge of the bomb was identified as Barry Connolly. Him and Kelly, the feller we arrested, were both found to be members of the Real IRA and tried at the Old Bailey. Apparently in court Connolly was furious with Kelly; Kelly was supposed to be a spotter who watched for any security forces that might be a danger to the plan. Not only did he not spot us, he gave himself away to me. Bloody idiot. As far as I know Connolly got life, and Kelly got a minimum of 15 years."

Marcus paused. He was struggling to think if there was anything else that needed to be said.

"The investigation on how they got all their weapons didn't really turn up much. The powers that be were interested, seeing as how after September 11th American based donations of cash and arms to the IRA were deemed inappropriate and finally dealt with by the FBI. I suppose it's just easy to get hold of weapons nowadays, they're manufactured all over the place."

He smiled.

"That's about it I think."

Heidi reached for the tape recorder, turned it off and popped it into her bag.

"Oh and I put in a word for Constable Meadows. It got him a promotion, and a Queen's Commendation for Bravery. I kept in touch with him for a while; he was a really nice bloke."

He stopped talking. He'd finished. He'd finished the whole story. Reliving it had felt oddly exhilarating in a detached sort of way: like watching a film of the action occurring. However the emotions that the memories had evoked had been as strong now as they were when he'd first felt them. Heidi had mentioned that she'd like to hear in detail about everything that he was allowed to talk about. As he watched her go he wasn't sure how he felt about that, or indeed about today. To counter this feeling he lit yet another cigarette, and beckoned Mariusz to sit down, in order to listen to him waffle about his 'pretty journalist friend', and then attempt half-heartedly to insist that there was nothing going on between them. Because personally, he preferred Mariusz's view of things than the real one.

**A/N: I am merely using the idea of a RIRA attack as a plot device. My respects and best wishes are with the victims of and all those affected by the Omagh bombing, Bloody Sunday and indeed all incidents related to The Troubles. I do not mean to cause any offence or distress to any groups or persons and apologise profusely if I have done so. As a British citizen nobody is more pleased than I that a lasting peace has been reached in Ireland, and that almost all republican terrorist activity, both on Irish and British soil, has ceased.**

**First actual action, tell me if you like it (or not). Cheers :D**


	6. Chapter 6

To Marcus' intense relief, Tony was not lurking somewhere in his flat when he arrived back at it, and putting the kettle on, he made a mental note to confiscate the key he'd had cut.

The interview had once again been a morning affair, their meeting so early allowing Marcus to bask in the comfortable and solitary surroundings of the cafe. Presumably Heidi thought it to be cosmopolitan, fulfilling some facet of the romanticised view of journalistic life that she probably still possessed. It was after all her who'd suggested the time originally. He wondered about her. She always seemed to leave briskly after meetings, and remained businesslike throughout. Why was that? Was she merely an exceedingly busy and highly professional woman? Something about her chain-smoking, foul mouthed, cynical personality suggested otherwise. Maybe they'd deliberately sent a particularly beautiful but uncouth reporter, reasoning that she'd be the best person to engage with an ex-soldier. He decided to put the matter on hold and drink a cup of tea.

He leaned on the kitchen worktop and supped. It was too hot.

Was it the right thing for him to be doing, reliving all these old experiences? He didn't know. Maybe it would help him to move on with his life. Then again maybe it'd just make him feel weird and emotionally drained, like it'd done today. Besides, a newspaper reporter hardly seemed the best person to be talking to about this... maybe a therapist or a-

He stopped himself, and imagined the pretentious bullshit that he knew anyone from any of the professions he had just contemplated would inevitably spew at him should he visit one of them. It would most probably feature the phrases 'mental trauma', 'closure' and 'emotional stress' heavily, and improve nothing but the therapists bank balance. At least his time with Heidi was amicable, not to mention her being interesting and attractive in her own right. He resolved to push on and see where it took him. He then realised that this was exactly what Tony had told him to do, and immediately began to have doubts again. He countered this by supping his tea once more. It didn't scald his mouth quite as badly this time.

Maybe he should get a second opinion; tell someone who wasn't, like Tony, essentially a blithering but jolly schoolboy staggering haphazardly through the world of adulthood. He knew the person he'd ask before he'd even reached into his pocket for his phone. Flicking through his contacts, he found 'Nadira'.

_**Hey, long time no speak! Wondering if you wanted to meet up for a drink at all? :)**_

_**Marcus xx**_

He then remembered that Nadira was Muslim, and changed the 'drink' to 'coffee', before sending it.

Christ, had he really not spoken to people for so long that he forgot essential details about them? He tried to push it from his mind, although this was particularly hard considering he'd known Nadira since university. She was one of the few people he had kept properly in touch with. They'd become fantastic friends at Uni, acting as mutual confidantes and soundboards for each other, joking that that they helped each other 'deal with life'. Nothing much had changed really since then; after Marcus had dropped out they'd stayed in touch, and had kept on 'dealing with life' in their own way. Marcus realised that if there was one person right now he needed, it was her. His phone buzzed:

_**I'd love that! When and where?**_

_**Dira xx**_

Marcus smiled and text back.

_**You decide. You're the one with the successful career :p Didn't I always tell you I'd end up living in a squalid flat and you'd a successful businesswoman? :D**_

_**Marcus xx**_

It was true. As far back as fresher's week they'd joked with each other that his natural habitat was a dismal room filled with waste and detritus, whereas hers was the lecture hall, and would eventually become the office. Considering that Nadira was now one of the most successful financial advisers in the country, and that he was currently leaning on a yoghurt that he'd initially taken for a tub of cress, it occurred to him that they'd been remarkably accurate. He was looking forward to seeing her. She knew him better than anyone, even Tony. Although admittedly, beating Tony at anything wasn't a difficult feat to achieve. She text and said she had a meeting, but they'd talk later and fix something.

He leaned back once more and sipped his tea. It was perfect drinking temperature. He reached blindly through a tangle of unopened post and paperwork on the worktop to find the remote to the radio. His finger caught a button and a 'plip' sounded in the adjacent room. The stereo system was one of the few extravagances he'd afforded himself: surround sound, LW, MW, SW, AM, FM and DAB radio, not to mention CD, Cassette and record players, and a USB dock. His cack-handedness had started the LP left inside the thing playing. It was The Smiths 'Hatful of Hollow'. The record had been left with the needle at the start, and began oozing from every corner of the room at a deliciously low but perfectly perceptible volume. He grinned and reached into the bookcase that the stereo sat atop. Orwell. Definitely some Orwell.

Knowing that he was going to talk to Nadira soon was the most reassuring thought he'd had in quite some time, and he managed to while away a couple of hours, nestled into a chair with a copy 'The Road to Wigan Pier'. By about midday, he was growing weary. Early mornings didn't agree with him, especially when he's spent so long becoming accustomed to getting up whenever he wanted. His phone buzzed:

**Starbucks. Covent Garden. 4. Be there or I'll bully you senseless.**

**Dira xx**

Now safely with plans for the rest of the day, he settled back into the chair. Maybe he should read some more. No. He'd been up all morning; he deserved a rest. Maybe he should go to bed. No. Going to bed in the middle of the day was for slobs like Tony. He'd just shut his eyes for a moment.

...

A long while later Marcus Burns' eyes fluttered open. Working on the proviso that his flat didn't usually resemble text describing living conditions in 1930s Lancashire, he peeled the book from his face, and sat up. He'd always hated falling asleep during the day, it made him feel sluggish and lethargic until he went to bed proper. Ah well, at least he wasn't going to be la-

He looked at the clock. A Quarter To Four. He had fifteen minutes to get into the centre of London. Fuck. And he needed to change his clothes. Double Fuck. And comb his hair. Triple Fuck. And brush his teeth. Quadruple Fuck. And learn what the one after quadruple was. Fuck.

The Tube journey was not enjoyable. The only seat available was between a teen listening to invasive dance music, and a buck toothed office worker who smelled of biscuits. He smiled at a baby perched in a pushchair opposite, only to have it grimace waspishly back. That'd never happened to him before. Maybe babies were becoming increasingly cynical and disdainful along with the rest of the world.

His phone buzzed.

**Whereabouts are you?**

**Dira xx**

He tried not to feel guilty as he typed back.

**Just passing Cally Road station. Sorta slept this afternoon :/ xx**

This was bad. It was already four o' clock. They hadn't actually seen each other in person for a while now. What a fantastic re-introduction; making her wait for him. God, he was so rude. He was a terrible person. His thigh vibrated.

**Luckily for you I didn't think you'd be on time. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes.**

**Dira xx**

He sighed with relief. This whole going out and seeing people thing was far more stressful than he'd remembered it to be. The blackness outside of the windows began to roll past more quickly as if to reassure him that he'd get there on time. He smiled at the baby again. It smiled back.

By the time light sliced messianically into the carriage for a fourth time, he'd arrived into the beautiful white and orange tiling of Covent Garden station with a few minutes to spare. He'd always liked this station, it was one of the older on the network; the 110 year old art deco interior preserved in impeccable condition. The place had an air of grandeur from a bygone era about it, and was steeped in fable and folklore, although he was intensely relieved that his mind only wandered onto those which pertained to haunting as he was stepping off the escalators to within sight of the street.

Although he didn't come here often, Starbucks wasn't hard to find; a large globalised boil growing up through the pavement, as they seemingly did on any street one could think of nowadays; the smell of roasting coffee beans and heavy branding blinding people to the fact that despite a slightly stylised interior and some silly drink names, this coffee shop was just the same as any other.

Marcus entered, ordered the one thing on the menu he understood, and then retreated outside onto one of the metal tables clinging to the edge of the street under a parasol. He supped at the foamy coffee. There was too much cream and sugar in it. And coffee for that matter, and not enough tea, or milk. He laughed at his own abject ineptitude and cynicism, picked up a stirrer, and began drawing idiotic patterns in the foam. When a passing mother scowled at his childish behaviour, he gave up and began looking up and down the street instead. Then his face split into a huge grin. If the Starbucks stood out, it was nothing to the woman he'd just spied walking up the street towards him.

The thing with Nadira was, everything about her colouring was striking. Jet black hair, and turquoise eyes complimented by her sub-continental skin-tone made an instant impression, and ever since he'd first met her at university she'd exacerbated this by pulling off a dark red lipstick that was so flagrant it went full circle and looked classy. Marcus stood up as she approached.

"Hey you!" She beamed

"Hey."

They hugged. After he'd let go she stepped back and looked him up and down.

"You've put on weight!"

"You've lost it."

"It suits you!"

"Right back 'atcha."

Marcus always used this as an opening line, even when she didn't look like she'd lost any weight. Despite being blessed with curves most women would kill for, Nadira was one of those women who insisted in genuinely believing that her figure was undesirable. Eventually he'd given up and left her to it. Judging from her current figure, and the subsequent looks she was getting from every male in the immediate vicinity, he inferred that at the moment she was maintaining a sensible stance on the issue.

She procured a coffee suspiciously faster than he had, and sat down opposite, peeling off a fashionable leather jacket to reveal a perfect business suit beneath. He smiled.

"How've you been?"

"Good. Really good. Ridiculously good actually."

"Oh, finally got a gentleman have we?"

"No, not as of the moment." She said, before adding "It's... Work stuff" shrugging and jerking her head unconcernedly.

"Ah, so you're still doing the whole financial adviser gig?"

She looked down almost abashed. "Yeah."

"Doing well?

"You bloody know I am! I just told you! You're just trying to embarrass me."

Marcus was grinning now. He raised an eyebrow. "Now why would I do that? I was only going to try and engage you in conversation about your numerous cars and houses and other equitable investments." He leaned back and laughed. "So you still won't lend me the DB5?"

Now she laughed too. "You know perfectly well that that car is an investment. I'm waiting for someone prepared to pay me what it's worth."

"Well as long as your annual salary's still firmly in six figures."

"Closer to seven now that we're doing well over in Germany."

There was a pause. They both looked at each other for a few moments; the hustle and bustle of one of the world's busiest shopping precincts swirling around them. Nadira laughed.

"Look at us!" She giggled. "We're both still here, doing this."

"What, aimlessly consuming caffeine and masking our friendship with a veil of condescension and sarcasm?"

She nodded and laughed even harder. "You're one of the most elite soldiers in the world, and I'm working for a big company, but here we are still going on the same way we did ten years ago. It makes me feel... grown up."

"WAS a soldier." Marcus corrected. "And you're not WORKING for a big company. You ARE a big company." He'd always adored the ridiculous degree of Nadira's modesty. "Are you trying to convince me while you popped out for lunch someone else set up a 'Nadira Idrisi Financial Trading Ltd.' that you just happened to become the head of?"

"Okay... WAS a soldier" she winked, skirting his jape. "Point is, it's fucking brilliant how we're still doing this even after so long. I was so excited when you said you wanted to have a catch up"

"I was excited you still had the time to spend with a washed-up ex serviceman like me."

"Of course I did! For more reasons than one."

Marcus, who'd been raising his coffee to his mouth, stopped short. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on!" Nadira exclaimed. "You never invite anyone anywhere. You always wait to be asked. You've always been the same. There must be something you really want to talk about to invite me out here."

"Yeah. I suppose there is."

She leant forward and looked at him concernedly, the way a mother might do to an ill child. Now that the time had come to talk, Marcus really didn't know what to say. She'd been right when she said that he always waited to be invited, rather than organising anything himself. It caused him intense discomfort to do so, stemming from his hatred of the feeling that people were there just for him. This was a feeling he was experiencing right now; the onus was on him. He'd asked her to come here, and the only reasons she had was so he could talk about his problems, and although he hadn't said this explicitly, Dira knew him far too well not to figure out that there was something wrong, and the reason they were here was so they could talk about it.

"I..." he began. "I've been thinking over like... all of the stuff I... from when I was in the army" He finished deflatedly.

Nadira's eyebrows wiggled as they always had when she was perturbed. "You don't dwell on things unless you have to. You and I both know that. What's brought it on?"

Marcus sighed. "Remember after the war, everyone wanted a piece of me? The offers for interviews wouldn't stop pouring in."

"Yeah?"

"I got another offer not long ago, so I took it up. I've been talking to a journo about it."

Dira pursed her lips. "Why? Usually you go all Basil Fawlty around that sort of stuff."

"I don't know..." Marcus started, his voice trailing off. "I'd been thinking like maybe I should actually do something with myself, and then the offer arrived so I took it." He deliberately left out the part about Tony being the one who talked him into it. Dira looked pensive.

"Hmmm. So what specifically have you been talking about?"

"So far? Just like my early life and stuff, and then my first actual action with the regiment."

"Your first action? Was that the stuff down in London during the Olympics?"

"Yeah."

Again the conversation broke, and Marcus began ferreting around in his pocket for a lighter before flicking open a packet of Marlboro.

"What the hell are you doing? You gave up years ago!"

Marcus raised his eyebrows and shrugged "Yeah, I've sorta started again."

"Those things can kill you."

He lit it and blew the smoke out through his nose. "Bullets can kill you, didn't stop me doing what I did."

She narrowed her eyes playfully. "You stubborn bastard."

He laughed. "Well, I have my moments."

Another pause. Marcus smoked as gregariously as possible, smiling vacantly at Dira as he did so. He flicked away some ash and steeled himself.

"The thing is" He began "At first, I thought I'd just tell her like, you know... the stuff that was actually important, the stuff that she'd need to know, the sorta stuff she'd want to hear." He stopped and took a drag from his cigarette. "But then as it progressed I got into it, and started telling her about everything pretty much entirely in detail."

Dira leaned forwards, her perfectly manicured eyebrows again dancing around concernedly. He leaned in too, on the pretext of stubbing out his cigarette, but really wanting to stress the importance of what he was saying.

"It felt quite sort of... cathartic saying all the stuff I did, and now I feel like I've committed myself to being completely open. No, I want to be. But the problem arises with the stuff I can't talk about, the sort of, 'all or nothing approach' that I'm feeling here doesn't apply when there's a lot of it I can't talk about. What do you think?"

Dira stared at him for a moment. Then her mouth slowly broke into a smile. "So you're finally doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Oh isn't it obvious? Since you left the regiment you've done nothing. Literally nothing. You've not progressed with your life. You didn't feel like you could move on."

"Amateur psychologist now are we?"

"It didn't take a bloody genius to see what was going on!" She softened her tone and put a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, keep seeing this journo, keep talking to her about the stuff that you can. The stuff that you can't, think over yourself, you don't need to be talking to someone to remember things."

Marcus thought. "Seeing as how this is like old times, have you got any deep psychological problems you need me to sort?"

She gave him a look.

"Okay, have you got any more advice for me?"

"Start going out again. The release you're feeling from doing all of this will mean you'll be able to enjoy doing all the stuff that you haven't done since you left the regiment."

"You know perfectly well I just used to drink. That was essentially my personal life."

"Oh yeah, because you didn't used to play Rugby or Cricket or be interested in music or anything like that."

"You do hold me in high opinion."

"You know what I mean. Oh, and when you feel like it start seeing women again won't you? Me being the only woman in your life isn't good for you."

Marcus attempted to adopt a caddish attitude. "But Dira, you're the only one I need!"

She hit him. They laughed.

...

Back at home he felt positive. Nadira had been a massive help. He was going to do exactly what she'd told him to, mostly because she almost always knew what was best for him more than he did. _'Think over the stuff you can't talk about'_. He folded open his laptop and began surfing through old news articles:

_Last night the usually bustling financial district of Hong Kong was instead filled with the angry voices and shouted slogans of political protest. Over 800,000 people took to the streets to call for greater freedom of speech, universal suffrage, and greater transparency on the part of central Chinese government. Although Hong Kong operates a different political agenda to mainland China under the 'one country, two systems' premise due to its status as a 'special administrative region' of China, increasing concern has been raised in recent years over Chinese institutional encroachment into Hong Kong and its affairs. For the first time internet censorship and constraints have been implemented, as have restrictions to both the press and television broadcasters. Hence why although 1 July is an annual date for protest in the region, with marches taking place for the past 11 years, this year has marked by far the most vocal, widespread and eloquent demonstration that, as this reporter wrote this article, was still taking place. A group of protestors I managed to speak with before being whisked away by a police officer carried huge placards with the tagline 'we will not be ruled by a police state' and demanded independence, or a return to British rule. Indeed from my hotel room a short while later I witnessed one protestor who had somehow gained entry to the HSBC building balancing precariously from several upper windows in turn in order to emblazon its glass frontage with a huge British Hong Kong flag. The protests have up to now remained peaceful; however their continuing nature and already arriving police and military reinforcements from the mainland mean that this may not remain the case. One thing that is for sure is that this situation will surely not go unnoticed; as has been pointed out to me by numerous protestors, Chinese political encroachment on the scale that has occurred in the past 12 months is almost certainly in breach of the Sino-British Declaration, although no response has yet been heard from Whitehall. For now, this remains a Chinese internal affair._

_BBC News – 2 July 2014_

...

_The international community was today shocked after the continuing political unrest in Hong Kong took a horrifying and violent turn for the worse. Although details are at the moment unclear, reports indicate that shots were fired by government troops at protestors in Kowloon, with the death toll in at least the dozens. The UN secretary general said that an emergency meeting would be called in order to discuss the humanitarian situation within Hong Kong. More on this as it develops._

_Reuters – 14 July 2014_

_..._

_Today's United Nations crisis meeting failed to reach any sort of resolution regarding the humanitarian crisis in Hong Kong. Chinese government representatives were not present at the summit and have deflected all pressure put on them by the international community thus far. Now passing the month mark, the unrest in Hong Kong has been characterised by defiant calls for either greater freedoms or a secession from China by protestors, and violent response by security forces, meeting demonstrators peaceful actions with tear gas and on now numerous occasions, live rounds. Although the number of dead remains unclear, even the most modest estimates now put it around least 500. With the British Hong Kong flag fast becoming the symbol of this ever bloodier protest movement, and the ineffectuality of today's talks in The Hague, the onus must surely now be on the United Kingdom, who apart from their attendance of the aforementioned summit, don't appear to have taken any significant action, despite numerous calls from within Hong Kong to do so._

_Washington Post – 3 August 2014_

_..._

**6****th**** August 2014 – 04:35:37**

**Sgt. Marcus Burns**

**22****nd**** SAS Regiment**

**1.2 kilometres North-East of Green Island, Victoria Harbour, Hong Kong.**

...

**A/N: The Sino-British Declaration is an agreement signed in 1984 between China and the United Kingdom intended (at least in part) to ensure the social and political freedoms of the people of Hong Kong after the regions transfer of sovereignty from the UK to China that occurred in 1997. Also, it is entirely true that every year on 1 July Hong Kongers protest Chinese rule, and many do wave the British Hong Kong flag; around 400,000 people took part in the protest in 2012. All the best storylines are drawn from reality, right? :)**


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